Writing History
by thesweetestsounds
Summary: A young writer finds herself in Nazi-occupied France and gets much more of an adventure than she expects.
1. Chapter 1

**Writing History - an Inglorious Basterds fanfiction**

**A/N: This is the first chapter in a possible story i'm writing - I would love your feedback. If I don't get any responses, I'll take that as a sign and not continue writing this particular tale. Thank you! - I own nothing that you recognize from Inglorious Basterds.**

I was stuck – my actions had finally caught up with me.

I looked at the man in front of me. That was him. Hans Landa. The Jew Hunter. I met his gaze and quickly looked away, put off by his unblinking stare. He looked at me for another moment and turned to the solider beside him and muttered something to him in German. My broken knowledge of the language led me to believe that he was saying something about getting me cleaned up and then taking me somewhere else. I looked down at myself – he had a point. My clothes were covered in dirt and blood, and I was soaked through from the cold French rain pounding around us. My clothes stuck to my skin tightly, leaving hardly anything to the imagination. Out of self-consciousness, I tugged at my dress, trying to separate the wet cotton from my shivering, damp body. The Colonel smirked and called for something from the men behind them.

A blanket. The monster had given me a blanket.

The solider relayed his superiors' former message about my relocation to a few Nazi soldiers seated on tree stumps not to far off. They reluctantly got up from their posts and one of the men, who looked no older than 18, took me by the arm and guided me roughly towards the armored vehicle that was parked not too far away.

I tripped over my feet trying to keep up with him, and as I caught my balance I could here the Colonel behind me scoffing. I glared into the mud in front of my feet and continued to walk. When we got to the truck, the young Nazi opened the back and grunted at me, indicating I get in. I looked back to Landa and he gave me an inviting half smile and nodded towards the boot of the truck. I looked around, and seeing no other option, got into the back of the trunk – unaware of where I was going, or what would happen to me when I got there.


	2. Chapter 2

-one year earlier-

I had come to Europe to write. I had grown up in Canada, and moved to New York to study journalism. I went over to Europe in the middle of the thirties to write about the political developments in Germany in the hopes of sending articles to a newspaper back home. I hadn't really been aware of what had been going on before I got there, but I figured that what ever was going on had to be important.

My family had not wanted me to go. My mother had cried, my father had yelled and my younger sister refused to talk to me – or to allow me to see my little niece and nephew before I left. My goodbyes had been short and tense. My father, he had also been a writer as well. He had written a few novels, nothing worth reading, in my opinion at least. My mom doesn't work. She takes care of the house, and of her grandchildren. She couldn't comprehend why I was leaving. As a child, I had barely been allowed to ride my bike with my friends, so the idea of me traveling across the ocean was not…in her plans for me, to say the least. I had been expected to be married and have children by now, but after my engagement fell apart a year ago, I think my mother gave up entirely. None the less, leaving my family had been hard – my niece and nephew, in particular - but I knew that if I was going to get anywhere in the world of journalism, I had to immerse myself in current events and get my hands on a story.

I had begun my journey in London, but the city was far too dirty for my liking (hypocritical coming from someone who had lived in New York) so I moved into a small countryside town just outside of Paris. While I had wanted to actually go into Germany itself, I had been observing the developments of the country – and I wasn't stupid. Being in Nazi-occupied France was dangerous enough as it was.

For the first month or so of my stay in France, I was highly disappointed. None of the French locals would talk to me about their experiences under the Nazis – and the Germans certainly weren't going to tell me anything. I had learnt French in elementary school when I was little, so communication wasn't a problem. But as soon as they got wind of me being a journalist, I was swiftly and rudely gotten rid of. Apparently the Germans were particular about what information about their affairs was made public.

The little inn I was staying at was directly above a café, so I was able to watch the comings and goings of the town through my bedroom window. The most investigative journalism I had come up with in the first month was that Germans liked their coffee. And their women. I would be kept up at night by Germans yelling and leering at the local…female entertainers.

Feeling restless and hopeless, I decided to take a more rustic approach to my writing. I checked out of the inn, leaving anything non-essential with the hotel owner's teenage daughter to have, and I set out on foot, with nothing but my old school bag, to walk to Paris and hopefully find something interesting to write about on the way.

This time wandering the French countryside had given me a lot of time to think. About myself. About my life. About my mistakes. I thought of my family, and thought of the type of story I was looking for. But, much to my own dismay, I found myself replaying the day that changed everything.

"What do you mean, it's off?"

"The wedding," I stammered, "it's off. I'm done. It's over."

Chris looked at me long and hard, and then burst out in obnoxious peals of laughter.

"Like hell you are," he sneered as he grabbed my arm and forced me into the side of the kitchen table, "you would be nothing without me. No publishers would know your name. If it weren't for me…you would be nobody". As he held me tight against the hard wooden table, I could see beads of sweat forming by his hairline, and could feel his breath on my forehead. I considered my situation. What he said had been true enough…but not enough for me.

I brought my knee up into his (to be honest) less-than-impressive nether regions and watched him fall to the ground. As I stood over his body, my adrenaline kicked in and I found myself in possession of a new found rage.

"You absolute fuck. Go to hell, you pathetic, lying piece of shit. Leave me. Take the car, the house, the dog. I. Don't. Care. Have fun fucking that slut. I hope she rides you so hard, she breaks your fucking dick.".

It had felt good. I felt power.

It didn't last for very long. I moved back in with my parents and that power soon fell away and I was left with heartbreak. 8 years of my life I had been with Chris. Eight years, and now that I was left on my own, I was keenly aware of how his parting words had rung true. Every editor I had seen since we split found some reason not to have me published. They said its because I lacked experience, but I knew Chris' network of cronies, and I knew he was determined never to see my name in print.

That's what inspired me to go to Germany. While they wouldn't take my articles about local news back home, if I found something, something original, something off the radar of everyone, and if I made it great…well, they couldn't refuse me. Someone would publish me. And then Chris would be forced to see my name.


	3. Chapter 3

-back at camp-

Once we had arrived at our destination, I was placed what could only be a prison cell. At least they let me keep my blanket. A young blond woman had brought be a soup and a piece of bread – I tried to ask her where I was or what was going to happen but she seemed determined not to understand me.

For three days I waited. Well, three days according to the number of times that same petit blonde girl came and brought me supper. At this point – starving, exhausted and in desperate need of a shower – I had decided that my parents were right. As a shiver ran up the back of my neck, I came to terms with the fact that I may not live much longer. Landa had been nice enough to be sure – but I knew better. I had spent enough time around the Nazi officers I pestered trying to get information to know that they can be extremely charming when the occasion called for it.

While I wasn't surprised that his little show of chivalry was all for naught, I was still curious as to why I was still alive. If they wanted me dead, why the fuck didn't they just shoot me in the wilderness? I was grateful for my life, to be sure – but I was suspicious. If they were keeping me here to die slowly…the fuckers would have at least come in to observe me waste away, instead of subjecting this poor girl to my questions and my filth.

As I lay on my back, trying to dig the dirt out from underneath my fingernails, my door opened. Dinner had been brought by only a few hours before, so I sat up to see who had entered. It was a short man – in uniform, but looking no more the soldier than my little nephew Jeremy. He looked me up and down with disgust. I don't blame him – it was pretty hard to maintain any semblance to personal hygiene in this place. The man rolled his eyes and beckoned for me to get up. As I followed him out the door, I looked back at my cell. Funny to think that that place now seemed inviting.

We walked down a long hallway and turned right. Rows and rows of empty cells seemed to gawk at me through the gloom. I wrapped the blanket around myself, suddenly self-conscious. As we passed through a door, I was led down a different hallway that was obviously not meant for those with dirt under their fingernails. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling emitted a soft, warm glow and the walls were covered in expensive-looking floral wall paper. As I was looking up to check out the designs on the ceiling, I ran into the back of my boy-Nazi. He looked back and glared, but ushered me into a room at the end of the hallway, through a heavy mahogany door.

There he was. My own fucking mother Teresa. Landa stood up from the impressive desk he was seated behind and beckoned for me to have a seat in front of him.

"Good Evening, my girl. Please, please do have a seat! Could I tempt you with a glass of milk?".

Well. Fuck me.

-_Thank you so much to all the folks who have reviewed/subscribed! I know it has legit taken forever for me to update, but now that i'm back on the hobby horse, hopefully the chapters will be a lot more frequent. I'm writing this story as I go so PLEASE message me with ideas, suggestions, criticisms. Thanks!-_


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